The Battle
by Summertime-Snow
Summary: A telling of the Battle of Five Armies from the POVs of Thorin and his nephews. It was one of the most beautiful nights that had ever been witnessed. The sky was a crisp, midnight blue and the moon shone brighter than ever, giving the cloud behind which it hid an enchanting silver glow. In some sense, it could be argued, it was a good night to die.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **__Here's Part One of what will probably be a trilogy of my take on the events of the Battle of Five Armies._

_Basically I've been having serious feels and borderline depression over this particular event in the book, since well, most of us know how it ends by now. Since it's short and not so sweet in the book, I simply cannot wait to see Sir Peter Jackson and his team's interpretation of what I'm positive is going to be a heart-wrenching, dramatic scene. (I'm talking brilliantly-acted anguished cries that will leave me an emotional wreck mixed with kick-ass visuals and fight sequences)_

_Anyway, as an outlet to all my feels and creys, I decided to write my own version of the battle - I know it's probably got heaps of factual errors, but please just consider it dramatic license?_

_Hope you enjoy this as much as it hurt to write. (Spoiler Alert: IT HURT)_

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_**The Battle**_

_Part One_

* * *

It was one of the most beautiful nights that had ever been witnessed. The sky was a crisp, midnight blue; the mild scattering of dense, defined clouds almost artistically positioned across the dark canvas. The moon shone brighter than ever, giving the cloud behind which it hid an enchanting silver glow.

In some sense, it could be argued, it was a good night to die.

The tranquility and beauty of the night sky was not, however, reflected by the land.

War cries and the loud resonation of clashing metal, sickening thuds of impact and crunch of bone saturated the stagnant night air, reverberating across the space and amplified by the many nooks and crannies of the great terrain beyond. The plain was a clutter of wrestling figures, the lifeless forms of the fallen lettering the ground beneath their feet. Elves, Orcs, Dwarves, Goblins – good barely distinguishable from evil in the chaos and turmoil of warfare.

Apart from death, there was one thing that united the fallen: On the field, each was nothing more than a number, an honourable sacrifice for the cause they had fought and died for. Heroes, in the eyes of their people. But every single lifeless body that lay was someone's child; someone's lover; someone's father or brother or kin. Somewhere waited their loved ones, anxious for their return and dreading the instance that news arrived saying they would not. Someday the memory of their nobility would be passed on for generations to come, building their legacy.

In some cases, however, the loved ones fought alongside them, risking the chance of the legacy being passed on by history rather than recount.

Thorin was right in the heart of the battle, surrounded and dangerously outnumbered by countless orcs and goblins. He was not unaware of the Pale Orc Azog in the near distance, slowly but surely making his way toward him through an army of elves with the deadliest of intentions twisted into his grotesque face. Yet, as Thorin slashed down beast after beast, the only fear he felt in his guarded heart was for the safety of his nephews – the only kin he had left in the world. Panicked eyes scanned the vast expanse of the battleground, but he might as well not have, Even in unusually bright silver light of the moon, it was near impossible to identify the brothers in the midst of all the ongoing chaos.

Momentarily distracted from the task at hand, he failed to notice the warg make its attack until it was too late to escape. Razor sharp claws and foul-smelling yellow teeth were all Thorin registered before jaws clamped down on his thigh with a force akin to an olyphant's tread. A mangled yell of anguish escaped the seasoned warrior's lips as he was hoisted into the air by the grip on his leg, the great white warg fastening its hold impossibly tighter.

He felt his muscle shred and bone crumble; and it was in that moment, his head burning with fever and lungs straining from exhaustion, that he almost considered giving up. His injuries were not sparse – several ribs were snapped from one too many blows from a swinging mace and his left arm was twisted into odd angles; not to mention his right leg currently being used to suspend him dangling upside down in the air by the mouth of Azog's companion warg. He wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and have everything all be over when he awoke.

However, the heir to Erebor's throne had experienced far greater pain in his time. Not from any wounds sustained in battle, no, but the grief he felt at the deaths of his loved ones and the loss of his home. He still remembered being informed of the deaths of his grandfather, father, brother within minutes of each piece of grave news, and hours later holding on to his sister's hand as her heart too ceased to beat, mere minutes after delivering her second son into a race grieving with the losses of war.

Each death was like a series of blows right into his very being; the pain so severe that his countless battle wounds seemed non-existent. Those would eventually heal and scar, but the anguish associated with his loss had simply developed into a dull creeping ache, one that never had and never would fully fade.

Yet, here they were. In the darkest of times, his people had found a way of getting by. A child born on a day of death and despair had grown into a strong fighter and a noble dwarf like his brother was and father had been. Somehow, they had made it. He'd be damned if he got this close and lost it all. He needed to reclaim Erebor so his nephews could finally return to their rightful home.

It was with that thought that Thorin, gritting his teeth, reached for the dagger sheathed in his boot and waited for the right moment to strike. The white warg thrashed its enormous head, ugly snarls escaping it's throat as it shook Thorin about in the air. The pain was intense; so extreme that he saw stars, but with one well-timed swipe of the short blade, the Dwarven King slashed a long, deep laceration on the beast's sensitive nose. With a loud yelp, the warg released Thorin, launching him like a ragdoll several feet through the air before crashing in a heap on the ground below. The white warg clutched and pawed at its face, whimpering as dark blood gushed from its wounds and stained the pale fur.

It seemed as though everything was happening in slow motion. He looked around him, really taking in the battlefield for the first time since he led the army forth in the charge to reclaim their lost home. surrounding him were some of the bravest displays of bravery and strength he had seen, but in spite of the glorious effort of the warriors, bodies were still collapsing. Thorin could see the members of the company – old, wise Balin, his trusted advisor and dear friend taking down goblin after goblin. Dori and Nori stood back to back, slashing at the orcs and goblins that tried to stagger toward them, youthful, sweet Ori crouching between his brothers nursing a wound on his abdomen. The mighty Dwalin, toughest of the fighters, was fighting bravely despite being on his knees; two arrows sticking out of his left knee and a deep cut on the side of his scarred face.

It took the King a while to realize that his company, his _friends,_ were in a circle around him, forming a parameter of sorts to limit the number of foes that got to him. He felt his racing heart swell with gratitude at the valiant display of loyalty, courage and honour by these fine dwarves, as well as all the others who were fighting for their home. Along the horizon, the first light of day was beginning to peek shyly through the valleys of the great mountains in the far distance.

Dawn. Suddenly, Thorin felt just a glimmer of something he thought he had long lost – hope. A fresh dose of adrenaline gushed white hot through his veins. He felt renewed with a new vigour at the realization that his friend would fight to the death for him, and he'd be damned if he did not do the same for them.

He attempted to stand, but his mangled right leg would support no weight and he collapsed shakily back to the ground. Once again, he could merely watch helplessly as the now enraged white warg crossed the space between them with two long bounds, teeth already bared and ready to kill.

But Thorin refused to back down –his eyes steely and proud even in the face of death. If he should die, he would go down defiantly; his dignity would not allow him to go any other way. It was due to his stubborn refusal to shut his eyes that he saw the arrow fly out of seemingly nowhere, soaring straight and true through the air before finding its mark in the warg's eye. Within a fraction of a second, a throwing knife embedded itself into the creature's thick neck. He did not need to look to know who the weapons came from, but part of him wished he was wrong whilst another sighed in gratitude and relief.

Thorin whipped his head around so fast to the direction whence the weapons came that he felt vaguely dizzy, but that may have been from the loss of blood he had suffered. He did not know whether to be pleased or concerned at the sight that confirmed his suspicions – Fili and Kili running towards him with their weapons drawn and combat-ready.

"_No!"_ he wanted to yell. "_Get away from here. Go! Be safe_." But the determined looks on their dirt-streaked faces made it clear that they were not going anywhere until their uncle was out of harm's way.

They looked so lithe and tough, but for a moment all the King could see was two young boys running around the meadow brandishing sticks as swords, sparkling fits of giggles reminiscent of a bubbling stream bursting from their tiny mouths. He knew they were not weak - after all he had raised them to be strong dwarves and skilled fighters himself - but in his eyes, Fili and Kili would always be young and vulnerable; the innocent orphans who somehow brought joy and laughter in the darkest of times.

It was that thought that gave him the strength he needed. Those boys deserved a proper home after all they had been through in their short lives. They were so, so close to success, and he would not let their quest fail now.

He knew that as the young Princes drew closer to him, so did Azog from his other side. There was no way he would let that monstrosity anywhere near his kin.

His stern features hard, Thorin reached for Orcrist where it had fallen several feet away and speared it deep into the soft ground on which he lay. With an unsteady breath, he rose, using the elvish blade as a support to find his balance on his one good leg.

He was going to fight.

For loyalty, for honour, for those close to his heart.

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_ A/N: Well there's part one! I hope you enjoyed it (: Thank you so so much for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Battle_**

_Part Two_

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"Kili!" Fili yelled, taking down two goblins simultaneously with symmetrical swings of his twin swords. A third jumped onto this back from behind, its saber waving dangerously close to his face and he shook it off before plunging his own blood-stained blade into the foe's chest. He looked around in growing alarm – while his uncle stood holding his ground several metres away, his brother was nowhere to be seen.

It was with his relief when a familiar voice calling out his name had him whipping his head toward the sound, where he saw slight form of this younger brother astride the back of a chestnut horse. The beast was far too big and tall for Kili, despite him being tall for a dwarf, but Fili barely had time to register the thought before he felt his forearm being grabbed in a vice grip and he was being hoisted onto the horse's back behind his brother.

"What in Aule's name-"

"What do you think, brother?" he could hear the smirk in his younger brother's voice as he urged the horse on faster with a lash of the reins. "I reckon I could get used to this."

In spite of himself, Fili couldn't help the grin that fought its way onto his dirt-streaked face.

"Aye," he sighed "you'll be the death of us both, you know."

Kili chuckled under his breath in reply. "Well go on then! Make yourself useful."

Fili didn't need to be told twice. With the advantage of a greater height atop the horse, as well as the benefit of speed on his side, each swing of his swords and axe did extra damage. Orc after orc crumpled to the ground as Kili led them in a wide circle around their uncle, the brothers conveniently ignoring the flabbergasted and perplexed glances they received from the other members of the company.

"Grab the reins." Kili suddenly shouted. "It's my turn!"

"Have you taken one too many blow to the head, brother?" Fili replied, unsure of whether he had misheard Kili's request over the din of warfare. The young heir of Durin had always been reckless, but this borderlined insane…

"NOW!"

The leather reins were tossed into his hands and before he knew it, Kili was swinging a leg around him and effortlessly shuffling behind him, one hand already reached over his shoulder for an arrow whilst the other adjusted its grip on the bow. Strong forearms pushed Fili forward on the saddle so the pair had somehow managed to swap the seating arrangement, all without the horse even breaking stride once.

Fili swore under his breath. He did not know how his brother managed half the things he did, but there were rare few occasion where Fili had to admit they'd come in useful.

"So. How many did you kill, Fili?" Kili asked, aligning his fifth arrow in the quiver and taking aim. "_Five,_" He breathed, after releasing the bowstring.

"Oh are we making this a competition now?" Fili laughed. "I am afraid I did not keep count of something as petty as-"

"How many?"

"Twenty-seven."

"_Nine, ten_. – Challenge accepted – _Twelve_…"

* * *

They made a good team, Fili and Kili. They always had. It was a compatibility that dated way back to when they were naught but mere dwarflings – from innocent childhood mischief like stealing an entire batch of Bombur's fresh-baked pasties, to not-so-innocent deeds like the time they succeeded spiking the ale at Bramlin's fiftieth birthday with some of the very potent 'Dragon's Drool' alcohol from Dwalin's liquor cabinet. The latter had resulted in the brothers clutching their sides with laughter as their unsuspecting companions slowly spiraled into absolutely hilarious states of intoxication, which they always vehemently stated was well worth the telling off and extra chores they were punished with when they were caught.

* * *

"_Sixteen…_" Kili muttered under his breath. The area surrounding them was clear now - that was the best advantage of the long-range nature of his weapon of choice. His eyes scanned the battlefield, illuminated by the silver glow of the moon. In the distance, Dori and Nori fought back to back, Ori tucked protectively between them with his slingshot and array of small throwing knives. Bofur wielded his war hammer bravely, the comically floppy ears of his hat looking most out of place in the graveness of the battle. Concerningly, however, his Uncle had slipped out of sight.

"Oy, Fili?"

"Aye?"

"Do you see Thorin anywhere?"

Immediately, the blonde glanced over to where he had last seen his Uncle standing up to a wave of orcs. The silver-streaked locks of the King was nowhere to be seen, but Fili did, with a heavy heart, notice that the White Warg that was often associated with Azog now crowded that space.

Alarm began to build within him as the sharp sounds of a recoiling bowstring once again filled the air in rapid succession. He felt no fear for the impending attackers – he knew that Kili would handle that imposing threat before the goblins could get close enough to them to be considered a danger. He knew better than anyone just how capable his younger brother was with the bow and arrow; after, it had been Fili who had stood unrelentingly by his brother's side as other mocked him for the 'cowardly' choice of weapon.

His greatest worry at that present moment came in the form of a strangled yell that rose above the bellows of war, familiar only in voice but not in sound. He never thought he would live to see the day that Thorin Oakenshield made a cry so saturated with pain.

"Was that…" Kili's voice sounded strained, clipped.

"Yes."

Momentarily distracted, the dwarves failed to notice the spear that hurtled straight toward them until it was too late. The weapon buried itself into their horse's side and with a high whinny of pain, the beast collapsed, her riders slamming onto the ground beside her.

Fili and Kili rose to their feet as quickly as they could. There was no time for mourning for their new four-legged friend when their Uncle needed them. Together, the young dwarves ran towards Thorin, who they could now clearly see as he was raised in the air between the jaws of the White Warg.

Through the pounding of blood in his ears and haze of adrenaline pumping through his veins, Kili vaguely registered a sharp pain in his side, where his dagger must have punctured the skin beneath his armour when he had hit the ground a that peculiar angle. It seemed irrelevant now, however. Pain was not of the slightest concern as he reached for one of his own arrows protruding from the carcass of a goblin on the ground, nocking it in his bow and firing it between the brows of another without so much as a blink of his eye. He collected arrows from his previous victims and stashed them back into his quiver as he passed, all the while defending himself with the dwarven sword he had inherited from his Uncle all those years ago.

Thorin was no longer being held at mercy by the warg, though it did not take an experienced eye to see that the mighty warrior was greatly weakened and in no state to retaliate.

No words needed to be exchanged between the brothers, yet their actions were perfectly synchronized. They quickened their pace; steps wider and faster. As Kili reached for an arrow for his bow, Fili pulled a throwing knife out of his bracer and adjusted it in his hand. The precise second that they were within range, the weapons soared. Side by side and weapons raised, they rush to defend the only Father they had ever known.

Like everything else they had done, and would ever do, they did it together.

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Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Just one more Part left now, methinks.

Now I know in the novel Azog has absolutely no part in the dreaded Battle of Five Armies, bit I'm just playing off what might possibly happen in the movies. Now obviously I have no idea what's gonna go down in those, but I really, really want to know! Guh. I'm so excited for the new movies I'm going insane!

I hope you enjoyed and please do leave a review if you can; they give me warm fuzzies :3 Also, a HUGE thank you for the reviewers for Part One (:

-J

x


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